Armand’s First Letter. Amelia’s First Letter.

20 November 1022, Cumbrian Embassy, Toulouse

My dearest cousin Armand,

I trust you are waiting for this letter with bated breath, which is why I sent it off with its predecessor.

Yesterday at half-past 10 o’clock I took my usual seat in the chapel at L’École du Sorciers, greeted Our Lord in the Tabernacle, and settled myself to wait in a degree of fear and trembling. It is a horrifying thing for one such as I, a woman with no pretensions to nobility, to find herself caught up in the affairs of the highest of two lands.

I heard the door open promptly at 11 o’clock, and a familiar creak as Princess Beatrice took her seat in Charles’ usual spot. Good, I thought; at least they have been speaking to each other about this!

I waited a few moments, and then said, “Good morning, Your Highness. Won’t you come up and join me?”

There was a rustle of skirts. “Did His Majesty often come join you?” Her tone was cold.

I smiled, though she couldn’t see. “Never. It wouldn’t have been fitting.”

“Explain.”

“We were two, each here to wrestle with the Presence.” I inclined my head towards the Tabernacle. “We were not here for a tête-à-tête, though sometimes we spoke to each other. You and I are not here for a tête-à-tête either, but a more general conversation.”

The rustle of skirts had begun to move closer as I spoke, and then paused. “But there are two of us.”

“Three,” I said, once more indicating the Tabernacle.

The rustling came nearer and then subsided as Beatrice took a seat by my side.

“You practice the Old Religion, then,” she said. Her tone remained chill, but the chill was joined by a note of surprise.

“I do, now, yes. As does your intended.”

“Yes.” A pause. “And might I ask, about what were you wrestling?”

I kept my face on the Tabernacle as I answered. “You have been told, no doubt, about how I destroyed Le Maréchal’s last fleet.”

“Yes. How did you do that?”

I extended my hand in front of me and allowed a flame to dance on my palm.

“Easily,” I said. “Far too easily. The difficulty lay in not destroying the Cumbrian fleet alongside it. I very much wanted to.” I heard a quick intake of breath, and continued, “Or, not I, but the flame. I was eventually recalled here, to L’École, and warned that I must master my feelings or learn to live as a hermit. And then, I began to come here, late at night, to ask for help.”

“Then I did see them!”

“See what?”

“The flames. In your eyes.”

“Did you?” I said. “I am heartily sorry for that.” Snuffing the flame on my palm, I turned to her for the first time, and open my eyes wide. “Now?”

She studied my face, and then gently shook her head. “No.”

“Good,” I said, and turned back to the Tabernacle.

“How did you meet Charles?” she asked in more normal tones.

“First I met the Comte de Marigny, who asked me to help Charles to fight his enemies. I said no, of course, for we of L’École do not use our wizardry for warfare. I was only with Le Maréchal’s fleet because its commander told me they held my husband captive. He wanted me to destroy the Cumbrian fleet. It didn’t end well for him. But your intended had no such handle on me—would scorn to try such a thing, I am sure—and though I sympathized with his position I could not agree to his request. I did not meet him face to face until he and de Marigny took refuge here.”

“And then?”

“One night I heard the door open. I was sitting here, and turned to see Charles. He bowed and begged my apology, and sat in the back.”

“And you spoke?”

“Not that night; he wasn’t there to see me. On later nights, sometimes.”

“About what?”

I shifted to face her. “That would be for him to say, not I. But you must remember that he and the Comte were in hiding, and never left their chambers during the day. He had been sorely pressed by the Dukes, and seemed near despair. Perhaps he wanted counsel from someone other than de Marigny. And I was near despair myself, at times, I suppose.”

I shrugged. “And then one day he announced that he was joining his people on the barricades. I thought it would be the death of him. I am so glad to have been mistaken.”

“And you have seen him since?”

“After he regained the throne, yes, though only in company. And not since my recent return to Toulouse.”

“And you have not communicated with him at all?”

“Only through de Marigny; and you were meant to be present for that.”

The princess nodded, and then said sharply, “No other message?”

I smiled. “One. I told the Comte to tell Charles that he had best be diligent at mending his fences with you. No one likes to be rebuked in public.”

She looked down. “So he told me.”

I waited, and at length she looked up. “I misjudged you,” she said. “I am sorry. Can you find it in your heart to forgive me?”

I indicated the Tabernacle. “Here? How could I do otherwise? And please do forgive Charles; the ways of the city nobility are foreign to him, and I am confident that he did not consider how it would look.”

“I did not,” came an unexpected voice from the back of the chapel. I whipped my head around to see the King seated in his usual place.

“Your Majesty!” I said, rising to my feet.

He rose as well. “Here I am only Charles. How could I be otherwise?” And then, to the princess, “Beloved? Have you heard enough?”

“Yes.” Rising, she took my hands, and gripped them. “Thank you,” she said, and they were gone; and I knelt in thanksgiving.

What shall happen next, I do not know; but I have sent the princess an invitation to tea.

Your hopeful cousin,

Amelia

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